Spanish
In the Dominican Republic, presidents don't fall because of the opposition.
They fall because of something more intimate and devastating: their own family.
When corruption shares the same last name as the presidential band, it ceases to be a case and becomes a sentence.
It's not a contract that is judged: it's the entire credibility of a government that is judged.
In Trujillo's time, family corruption was not hidden: it was the system.
The family governed openly because no one could name the abuse.
Then came Balaguer, who perfected silence.
If any relative overstepped, the rumor disappeared before becoming news.
It was a tacit pact: as long as calm was maintained, the intimacy of power remained outside the national conversation.
That world is over.
With the democratic opening and the digital age, politics lost its curtains.
What used to die in the corridors is now recorded on a phone and broadcast in seconds.
The presidential family ceased to be untouchable: it became a subject of public debate and popular judgment.
The first blow was felt by Leonel Fernández.
In 2013, Nuria Piera revealed that his sisters, Janet and Kirsis, were linked to companies that received millionaire contracts from the State.
Leonel was not accused, but his last name appeared next to the word “corruption” for the first time.
It was the beginning of a new era: Dominican politics discovered that modernity not only brought speeches and works, but also a transparency that could expose the power.
The myth of the untouchable leader crumbled, and with it began an unprecedented public scrutiny.
With Leonel, the wound was in the media.
With Danilo Medina, it was terminal.
Months after leaving power, his siblings Alexis and Carmen Magalys were arrested in Operation Octopus, accused of running an influence peddling ring during his government.
The country saw, live and direct, justice touch presidential blood.
That image not only sank Danilo: it buried twenty years of PLD hegemony.
And the shadow didn't end with the Medina brothers.
Danilo's brother-in-law, Maxy Montilla, extended his influence to the electricity sector, accumulating millionaire contracts with the distributors and expanding the stain of the presidential surname.
The idea that power was a family heritage ceased to be a rumor and became public evidence.
Luis Abinader came to the presidency with that fresh memory.
He knows that any shadow over his own can devour his legacy.
He has chosen a different path: to expose instead of cover up.
That decision gives him credibility, but it also leaves him without protection.
Each case that he brings to light strengthens his story, but it can also turn against him.
The SeNaSa case proved it: it was his own government that took the file to the Attorney General's Office.
Transparency illuminates… but it also burns.
In this country, the people can forgive mistakes, crises, and broken promises.
What they don't forgive is the feeling that the presidential family charges above the law.
That's why, when corruption bears the president's last name, it ceases to be a judicial process: it becomes a symbol.
And symbols are not easily buried.
Trujillo governed with fear.
Balaguer with silence.
Leonel with speech.
Danilo with denial.
Abinader chose the light.
Because here, presidents don't fall because of their adversaries.
They fall because of their own.
